Sons of Fire
by Stars of Artemis
Summary: Murtagh bitterly wonders why the Varden can't be the ones to save Eragon for once. But then, between the two of them, maybe he's not the one doing the saving. One-shots. Drabbles, mostly centered around the brothers. A bromance that's actually in character!
1. Savior

**A/N; an AU drabble, set during the heart of Brisingr. I wish there was more Murtagh and Eragon bromance other than the first book :( I also wish I could come up with a clever way to ask you to review like most authors do, but I seem to be running on 'empty' in the creative department right now so let's pretend I said something funny other than PLEASE R&R! Also, if you have better thoughts for a title, PM me or leave it in a review! All suggestions are welcome :)**

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><p><em>"Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend<em>

_somewhere along in the bitterness and_

_I would have stayed up with you all night_

_had I known how to save a life"_

_-The Fray_

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><p>His idiotic, naïve, bleeding heart of a little brother was going to get him killed. So decided Murtagh as he slung Eragon's arm around his shoulders and dragged his drugged body through the ruined stone halls. It would have been easier to lift him with magic, but the same spells that had rebounded upon Eragon and made him so weak would affect Murtagh the moment he said "risa".<p>

Catching Eragon had been the wild goose chase of the century. When Galbatorix had learned that the Rider was stranded in the heart of the empire after his attack on the Ra'zac, alone and without his dragon…well…it was safe to say Murtagh had been working overtime this past week. And after a carefully laid trap designed by the king himself- which involved drugging every river in the region, about three hundred armed guards, and some of the most complicated spellwork Murtagh had ever seen laid over the entire foundation of an ancient castle- they had pushed the younger Rider into this place, were he triggered the wards when he tried to fight off soldiers with magic.

And somehow still managed to knock them all out.

And of course Murtagh had to come clean up the mess, because the king didn't trust anyone else to be capable enough to bring his brother in. Eragon was the smoke that kept slipping through his fingers- no, Galbatorix would not lose him again, and Murtagh would not suffer again because he had. And now he was probably going to get crushed by falling stone because this entire castle was crumbling beneath their feet due to whatever Eragon had done as he dragged his boots through the dust. He was fairly certain his brother was aware of his presence- he was semi-conscious and had moaned when Murtagh picked him up, but he wasn't fighting him, either, even as Murtagh dragged him through the piles of rubble and staggered around corners. His frustration only grew because, no matter whose side he was on in this wretched war, whether he was free or a slave, one thing _never seemed to change_.

_Even when we're on different sides, I **still** always have to save him._

The thought was one of utter loathing.

Eragon didn't even have the decency to get captured in a way that wasn't horribly dramatic and didn't endanger Murtagh's life as well. And yet, being here, in this situation, reminded him so sharply of Gil'ead-

_No_, thought Murtagh furiously, shoving all the memories away. It did no good to think of the times he had been free. Of when he'd actually had a friend in the boy beside him he had come to scorn so much. It only made everything worse.

He'd learned that a long time ago.

Murtagh sidestepped just as a piece of the ceiling caved in, shattering with the ring of stone on stone upon the floor next to his boot.

"Blast it, Eragon, what did you do?" he muttered. The spells that had been laid on this place were now tearing it apart beneath their feet. Reckless spellwork on Galbatorix's end, perhaps- or perhaps the reason why his powerful rival seemed completely incoherent beside him.

Eragon's head rolled violently to the side as Murtagh pulled him across the stone, eyes blinking blankly. "I'm sorry," he suddenly blurted out, voice slurring and weak.

"For what," bit out Murtagh, more focused on dragging him across the floor.

"For letting you get taken," Eragon babbled. His fingers scrabbled loosely at Murtagh's sleeve, tangling against the chainmail. "If- if I had been faster…if I had seen them coming…if I had known…I wish could have saved you. Somehow I could have saved you." He paused and then added in a quiet, earnest voice, "I'm still _trying_ to save you."

That had not been what Murtagh was expecting, and his exasperation and frustration halted in the wake of his surprise._ I'm still trying to save you_. He sounded so desperate, so innocent, and at the moment, despite the Elven change in his features, he looked so young- just like the moody boy Murtagh had traveled with all the way to the Beor Mountains. He was just a boy- a little brother. Gods, but he was too naïve for the world. "…No one can save us now, Eragon. There is no hope for me or Thorn. We are his slaves forever."

"_No_," Eragon said fiercely and drunkenly, suddenly becoming more animated- and upset. The hand that was on his sleeve suddenly gripped his wrist tighter. "I don't believe that. And don't you give up, either, damn it. Don't give up!"

His patience had ended. "You don't know what we've been through, Eragon!" he snapped.

"Stop crying for yourself," Eragon slurred. "You're better than that! The Murtagh I knew…" he swayed, eyes downcast, seeming to lose some of his fight as whatever he had done sapped the last of his strength.

"The Murtagh you knew is gone," Murtagh said bitterly.

"No," Eragon repeated quietly. "No, I don't believe that. I'm going to save you." His eyes were almost closed.

"Eragon, I'm not asking you to save-"

"I'm going to save you," he repeated stubbornly, eyes sliding shut. "I'm going to. I didn't leave you then…and I'm not leaving you now. You were my best friend. I'm going to save you. You're my brother and I'm going to save you."

And then, with the roar of tumbling rock, the castle crumbled in around them.


	2. What If

**A/N: WOW, I did not expect to update this so soon. But like they say out in tumblr- I don't like, I obsess. Sorry for using the phrase 'bleeding heart' twice.**

**Enjoy! Oh and because I can never say this enough PLEASE REVIEW! Fandom burnout strikes everyone, but if you read this or the last one and liked either one AT ALL, PLEASE let me know. Reviews tend to keep me writing far longer than if I don't get any feedback. Even leave it anonymously if you want! And thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter- y'all are particularly wonderful, and each one made me smile! **

**ALSO; This chapter is an AU, taking place just before the start of Brisingr, in which Murtagh was never captured by the Twins...hence the title, and lack of Thorn.**

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><p>Eragon finished tightening the last strap of Saphira's saddle, and turned back to Murtagh to say their goodbyes. Roran already sat atop, going over a map of Helgrind for the twentieth time. Meeting the gaze of his friend, Eragon couldn't help but suddenly wish he was coming with them. Murtagh's brutal and ruthless manner on the battlefield may have upset him before, but he was a cunning and fearless warrior, determined to the last, and they could use that against the Ra'zac. And after Gil'ead and their flight to the Varden and all the other impossible, reckless, defiant things they had done together in the face of the Empire, it felt almost strange to be doing something like this <em>without<em> him.

They faced each other in silence for a moment, Eragon expectantly, Murtagh thoughtfully, and the quiet that stretched between them seemed taunt with the anticipation of goodbye and the fact that, perhaps neither truly knew what to say. This was the _Ra'zac_, after all. This was…_everything_. The reason he had left home in the first place. Words didn't quite seem to encompass it.

"It feels strange to me," Murtagh said at last in a soft, thoughtful voice, "to know that, after all the trouble you've gotten us into and all the impossible things we've done while slipping through the grasp of the Empire time and time again, you will be setting off on some equally dangerous, fools-errand adventure without me."

Eragon smiled to hear his thoughts echoed so clearly. "I was just thinking the same thing," he said. And then added, "And I did not _always_ get us into trouble."

"You did, and you know it."

Eragon laughed. "Fine! Gil'ead was indeed my doing. But I can hardly account for the ten-thousand Urgals that were chasing us after that."

"Try not to get captured this time. "

Sobering slightly- for beneath the dry, teasing demeanor, the thought of capture in these circumstances was very grave indeed- Eragon nodded. He wished Murtagh could come with them, and of course Murtagh had wanted too- but Eragon knew as well as anyone that the two of them, together, with Saphira, in the heart of the empire, was so dangerous a risk under threat of capture that it felt like tempting fate itself. And Nasuada knew it, too. It was probably even what the king would expect.

"Eragon," Murtagh said at last, a curious glint in his eyes. "If something happens to you, and you leave me alone with all these bleeding hearts in the Varden, I will never forgive you."

Eragon grinned. "Guess I better come back in one piece, then," he said, offering his hand to Murtagh.

"Guess so," Murtagh replied, clasping his arm. "Watch yourself," he murmured quietly.

"You, too."

They gazed at each other for a moment, and then Murtagh nodded, and Eragon turned and followed Roran's path up Saphira's back.

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><p><strong>AN: Come to think of it, Murtagh probably would have gone with Eragon anyways, but this was sort of what ended up on paper. And Murtagh likes to teasingly pretend with his little brother that he's still the only reason he's with the Varden...just to remind him not to get himself killed. **


	3. Secrets

**A/N; This is not my best, but it's all I have finished right now, and I didn't want to disappoint anyone by not updating. There are plenty more in the works, never you fear! I'll be able to write even more once i'm back in my dorm and have the Cycle to reference to :) Happy New Year! Also, my page breaks aren't showing up after my first A/N...sorry about that!**

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><p>It was with bittersweet joy that Arya beheld Eragon's face upon the rippling water in the white marble basin that had once belonged to her mother. Time had not changed him, as it had not changed her- the brown hair, brown eyes, and streamlined features were the same. It hurt to look at, but she could not look away, and to save herself more sorrow she struggled not to process Eragon's expression in her mind's eye.<p>

He always wore his emotions so clearly on his face when he looked at her. Even five years, ago, when he was last at her side. Her open book.

"Did you receive the plans my spellcasters sent to you?" she forced herself to ask, dragging her mind back to the present before too much time elapsed.

Eragon blinked, looking dazed. "Er- sorry, didn't catch that."

She suppressed a sigh._ What sorry fools are we_, she thought wistfully, _that love would bind us so, when the miles between us would mock us with each step we take further apart._

"The new plans for the rest of your city," she replied. "Did Blodgharm receive them?"

Eragon was in the mountains far beyond the wastelands of the east with the five new Riders she had sent him over the years, where he had established the Rider's new citadel upon one of the mighty peaks around a lake and named it Aslicar. Rather than build a city with raw materials they did not have, Eragon, the Elves, and the dragons had been carving it, bit by bit, out of the stone of the mountainside. The place Eragon stood now was rather like the Craigs of Tel'naeir- a flattened, circular cliff they had turned into a courtyard and used as a landing place for the dragons that overlooked the lake where the Riders flew often in practice. Over his shoulder, Arya could catch glimpses of the orange-glinting water, like a lake of fire, in the light of the setting sun.

It was only midday in Alageasia.

"Aye, we did," Eragon replied. "I meant to ask your architects some questions I have about the arches for the grand hall. The stone here doesn't work well with the design."

"We should invent a more sufficient way of communicating for your construction needs," Arya commented thoughtfully, tapping a slender finger upon the living wood of the table next to the basin. "Eragon, anything you need to build your city, you need only ask- it will take time, but I well send whatever is required."

"Perhaps we-"

A shadow suddenly blasted past the cliff behind Eragon with a great roar of wind, ruffling his hair, almost skimming the rock- two shadows, it seemed, one far smaller than the other, and she glimpsed their form over his shoulder. Dragon-shaped shadows; banking a sharp turn with left wings pointed straight down at the ground, flying so close together, overlapping, that it almost seemed like one dragon with two sets of wings and a very large, long tail.

The shadows were gone in a flash, so quickly they had appeared just as flashes of darkness glinting faintly in the light of the dying sun. But Arya had gone stock-still, her hands gripping the bowl so tightly the marble creaked threateningly under the strength in her fingers and her knuckles went white as bones.

"Eragon," she said, when she at last found her voice- and Eragon almost flinched because Arya – cool, passive, calm, stone-faced Arya- was audibly fighting to keep her voice under control so intensely that it almost sounded strangled, "was that…a _red dragon_ that just flew behind your back?" Each word was pronounced slowly, carefully, and contained a chill that rivaled the winters in Carvahall.

Eragon stared at her with wide, innocent brown eyes, looking every inch the fifteen-year-old boy he had once been- while Arya's gaze narrowed and her eyes glinted so cold a green that the hair on his arms stood up, a thousand miles away, because Arya was no idiot, and none of her pupils had been _red_.

Or gigantic.

"…Maybe."

Arya's eyes widened in fury. "You-"

Her image rippled and then unexpectedly vanished, leaving Eragon alone in silence.

A thousand miles away, beneath the dusky pines in the eternal, evergreen heart of the ancient Du Weldenvarden, Blagden cocked his head and watched with a mixture of amusement and mild horror as Arya's marble basin suddenly shattered into a hundred pieces in her small, dainty hands.

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><p><strong>AN: Arya's more pissed here because Eragon DIDN'T tell her he was harboring a certain red Rider in his new capital. But hey, he's not in Alagaesia anymore, so I say he can do whatever the fuck he wants. **

**The name Aslicar belongs to me- it's not the Ancient Language, so please don't steal! Also, I love the idea of some of Eragon's new students getting over their fear of Murtagh and him teaching them a thing or two about flying :) this may tie in with a much later chapter- I'll let you know when it's up. Please review!**


	4. What was Left Behind

**SO MUCH ANGST-**

**Sorry. Fair warning, though.**

**This chapter is only slightly AU and follows the general plotline of Eldest. It's set during the battle of the Burning Plains, and it's only AU because Thorn hasn't hatched for Murtagh yet, so the tale gets adjusted accordingly. Thanks so much to everyone who left reviews and favorited or alerted this chapter! And I hope you enjoy!**

**Oh, and a SPECIAL THANKS to Naerys Targaryen, who looked up the quote from Eldest (written in italics) for me that I used towards the end of this chapter, in record time, too. You are seriously the best!**

**ON WITH THE ANGST**

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><p>"<em>You<em>," Eragon snarled, his voice shaking with fury. He could have said all the things he had said before- added on all the creative curses he could possibly think of that he had voiced so passionately to Oromis at the Craigs of Tel'naeir, when he first discovered they had left him to die- but none of them seemed fitting enough, now. Nothing could describe the utter disgust and loathing he felt for the two _creatures_ before him- they were not fit to be called men.

The Twins smiled. "Us," they said together.

Eragon drew Zar'roc. For once the blade seemed to match his mood, gleaming madly in the red haze of the Burning Plains as though thirsty for blood. He saw Roran, off to his left, brandish his hammer. He took a step forward-

One of the Twins raised a hand. "Not so fast, _Shadeslayer_," he said, his voice laced with contempt. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Eragon pointed Zar'roc at them. "Your silver tongues and lies will not divert me," he swore.

"Oh, this _might_," hissed the other, grinning evilly. "You may want to heed our words-"

"Or you will never discover what happened to your precious friend Murtagh."

Fury boiled within Eragon at the words, even as something wrenched deep within him- sorrow and anger and guilt. "I know now!" he snarled. "_You_ killed him!"

"Killed him?" asked one in a mockery of shock.

"Found his bloody clothes at the bottom of the chasm, did you?' asked the other.

"Couldn't scry him, could you?"

"Wasn't that a neat trick?"

Bitterness tasted sour in Eragon's mouth. As much as he would believe their words, he _knew_ better. "_This_ is a trick," Eragon growled, bringing Zar'roc up to bear in both hands, planting his feet. "Spare me your lies." That they would use Murtagh's memory for their own malicious purposes filled him with an uncharacteristic hatred.

They smiled again- in perfect, eerie synchronization- and then said, at the same time, "Murtagh Morzanson is alive."

In the _Ancient Language._

Eragon froze. His stomach felt like it had dropped like a stone, and the battlefield seemed to fall strangely quiet for a moment before all the sound returned, pressing against his ears. _No_…

Dread and horror and fear and wild, wild hope all collided within him at once, because_ Murtagh was alive_-

And had been captured by the Twins, who were now in the service of the Empire…

_No_…

Their grins now stretched across their faces impossibly tight, giving them the visages of grotesque clowns, or the faces of the gargoyles that adorned the wicked, twisted cathedral he had once entered in Dras-Leona.

"Murtagh Morzanson is not dead-," one repeated in the common tongue.

"But by now, he probably wishes he could be."

"Would it ease your mind, Shadeslayer, to know that while you wile away the days beneath the pines with the elves, Murtagh despairs, alone in the dark?"

"Would it help for you to hear his voice, hear his screams?"

Oromis had taught him to control his emotions, but at the moment, all he could see were the Twins' leering smiles through a red haze. Heedless of the danger, all of Eragon's reckless rage burst forth. "_Brisingr_!" he screamed, and blue fire exploded from his hand, jetting toward the Twins.

_Eragon!_ Warned Saphira's distant voice. _This is what they want!_

The fire parted on either side of the Twins, and then he felt their combined consciousness assault the barriers of his mind.

Eragon whirled around, rallying his defenses for the mental attack while he barely called out a spell to hold off the flames they deflected back at him. The Twins had done what they had set out to do- by revealing Murtagh's capture, they had thrown him off balance, incited his rage instead of his caution, and now their mind-probes slammed against his barriers like battering rams.

But Eragon was not the same sixteen-year-old boy who had allowed them to search his mind in Farthen Dur. The Twins had clearly grown more powerful, but he and Saphira had grown more powerful still. He felt her, in the back of his mind, ready to lend her strength, just as he sensed Roran hesitate on the edge of the battle, before turning his hammer on any who dared interfere. And as the Twins tried to break through his defenses, they met an impossible wall.

Eragon emptied his mind of everything but the Twins. The gleam of their bald heads through the smoke, the vicious glitter of their beetle-like eyes, his hatred for every feature, every expression, every look. It was surprisingly easy, he realized, to defend one's mind from one's attacker, if one made the assailant they were trying to defeat the center of their focus and object of their fixation.

He felt their confusion, at first, and then their fear, as they searched around every curve of his consciousness and could find nothing but his hatred staring back at them, no way in or around his wall, no weak spots as they slammed against his armor. Then, with the combined strength of Saphira, Eragon lashed out at them, his thoughts and feelings formed into a lance that launched from his mind towards theirs, stabbing into their thoughts like an icy spear.

He felt them wince, felt their horror and panic. They tried to retreat into the safety of their own thoughts, and now _he_ crashed against _their_ defenses, battering against their walls like a hurricane, _grinding_ them down, feeling their pain, their fear-

And then one of those minds suddenly flashed red and white in agony, and then disappeared.

Eragon opened his eyes, shocked, and saw Roran standing there- over one of the bodies of the Twins, whose head had been bashed in, his hammer dripping red. He had taken advantage of their stillness and snuck in on them when none had noticed. He raised his hammer and grave a great war cry.

The other twin screamed and raised a hand toward Roran- purple fire gathered around his fingers-

"_No_!" shouted Eragon, launching himself forward. He swung Zar'roc in a wild arc, and there was a flash of red as the singing steel cut through muscle and tendon and bone.

The magician screamed again and collapsed to his knees, clutching the stump that had once been his left hand. Eragon darted down and seized a fistful of his robes, jarring him violently, laying the point of Zar'roc against the man's neck.

Eragon stared into the horrified face of the man he had come to detest so much, his hatred and revulsion and fury swirl inside of him like a tightly-leashed storm. The hand that held Zar'roc shook. "Where is he?" he asked quietly, voice trembling with rage.

A garbled string of nonsense came out of the magician's mouth. And then he _laughed_.

Eragon forced him down into the dirt, Zar'roc bared across his throat. "_Where is he_?" he roared.

The magician laughed again, baring crooked, pointed teeth to the sky. "Poor little Rider- helpless and alone- poor little Murtagh, with no one to save him-"

"_**Tell me**_!" Eragon's voice felt loud even to his own ears- imbued with magic, the ground shook beneath his feet at his words, and stones rattled in the earth. It seemed to snap the magician out of his brief madness.

"Where do you _think_?" hissed the Twin, terror glinting in his eyes. "He's in Uru'baen, you _stupid_ boy."

_Uru'baen._

He should have known.

The man saw his expression- and maybe even some of the determination banked there, because he gave a twisted smile that seemed to split his face, like a dry crack in the earth. "Try and save him, Dragon Rider, _Shadeslayer_. Try and save Murtagh from _him_, knowing that he suffers each day that passes- each day you have idled by. Just _try_."

And Eragon could see it in the Twin's open mind now- images of Murtagh, chained, helpless, screaming, tortured by the very man before him-

_Eragon!_

Saphira. She was close- he felt her presence draw near.

Eragon withdrew from the Twin's consciousness and from his body, staggering back on his feet before he did something born out of hatred that he knew he would regret. The man blinked at him, then his eyes narrowed, glittering with a calculating light. "Can't finish the job, Rider? Still have the stomach of a farm boy?" Despite his spiteful words, Eragon could hear the relief in his voice, the pathetic weakness.

Eragon wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "No," he said. "Not me."

Saphira landed heavily on the ground with an earth-jarring rattle. He felt her bloodlust and her fury, her anger at the betrayal and Eragon's inner pain. Her head lashed forward with a growl, and her fangs sank into the magician.

His shrill screams could probably be heard all across the battlefield and made Eragon's scalp prickle. She lashed her head, back and forth, the twin clutched in her jaws- and still he screamed; horrible, _wailing_ screams, until at last she threw him upon the ground, pinned him with a heavy paw, and bent to finish the job.

Eragon turned away.

The battle raged all around him, but now it felt as though he saw it all through some strange haze- sounds were distorted, sights seemed unreal. Maybe it was the smoke. Maybe it was him. He brushed past a silent, staring Roran without a word, too numb to offer an explanation. All he could feel was the pit inside his stomach, the horror and the dread and the guilt eating him from the inside out, because if there was one thing Eragon could not stand, more than anything in the world-_-Once I dedicate myself to a certain project or oath, I see it through, no matter the cost…especially if someone I love is in danger-_ it was the suffering of those he held dear.

Murtagh was in Uru'baen.

His head bowed, he stared at Zar'roc sightlessly, gleaming with blood in his hand.

Murtagh was in _Uru'baen_.

He was going to be sick.

_Murtagh was in Uru'baen._

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><p><strong>Anywho, I can totally see Galbatorix telling the Twins to let Eragon know he's got Murtagh, for the same reasons he wouldn't have told Murtagh to keep Eragon's heritage a secret. He knows what it'll do to Eragon, and if he's learned ANTYHING about Eragon by now from what the Twins saw digging around in his head, it's that he'll do anything to protect the people he cares about- especially when it comes to rescuing. Why didn't the Twins tell Eragon they thought he was the son of Morzan?<strong>

**…quite frankly, I didn't really have it in me. I am totally capable of that much angst, let me assure you, but I definitely would have needed Eldest as a close reference for Eragon's reaction because I haven't read the book in so long, and all my books are at my dorm, but primarily I didn't put it in because it would have stolen the spotlight from the whole 'oh by the way we've got Murtagh, sucker' thing. SO SORRY I keep leaving these long-ass A/N's for y'all to read. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.**

**Hope you liked!**


	5. A(nother) Narrow Escape

**A/N: So if you're going to read this, I HIGHLY suggest listening to 'Train Escape' by Hans Zimmer. It fits the action scene perfectly, and it's the track that actually inspired this chapter.**

**A minor AU, set during Eragon. ****Admit it. You thought they were pretty badass during their time together, too.**

**Enjoy! AND PLEASE REVIEW LIKE SERIOUSLY NOT KIDDING PLEASE**

**a**

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><p>"There's no way out," Eragon called quietly down from the hay loft, peering cautiously out of the cracked-open wooden shutters into the busy street below, which was beginning to fill up with Imperial soldiers. "Not without being seen."<p>

Below, he heard Murtagh curse violently under his breath in response.

It was an interesting story how they ended up in an abandoned old stable in one of the seedier sections of Teirm, but the hows and whys of what they were doing in the city in the first place (it was to see Jeod, as a matter of fact) were not as interesting as the situation they now found themselves in. Suffice to say they were in trouble- and had ducked in here to lose a patrol of guards-and their chances of getting out of the city were looking very slim indeed.

_Again_.

"We could disguise ourselves," offered Eragon.

"Because that worked so well the first time," growled Murtagh, clearly agitated. "And it wouldn't work. They'd recognize our horses- Snowfire especially."

Eragon looked over at the blazing white stallion and had to agree. For people who didn't want to be noticed, they had an interesting choice in horses.

"Maybe you shouldn't have let your scarf slip," muttered Eragon.

Murtagh whirled around. "_Me_? I could have sworn I passed _your_ face on a wanted poster on the way down here."

Eragon looked away from his watch at the window to peer down at Murtagh, interested in spite of himself. "Really?"

"Rough sketch," muttered Murtagh.

_If the two of you don't stop bickering long enough to find some way out of there, I am coming in to get you- even if every rampart is crawling with soldiers from the walls to the citadel._

Eragon sent a healthy dose of caution her way. _If that happens, none of us will make it out alive. Or worse- we'll get captured._

He felt her grudging reluctance- she knew he was right. _Murtagh should not have come._

_**You**__ try getting him to stay behind. _

_**I**__ would not have been so easily swayed. Sympathy should not hamper judgment._

This time Saphira felt Eragon's grudging reluctance- _he_ knew _she_ was right. Eragon had been adamant about Murtagh staying away from such a heavily fortified place, but Murtagh had complained about not being able to set foot in a civilized city for weeks, and had promised to keep his face well-hidden. And Eragon, too tired to argue and somewhat sorry for him, had gone along with it.

Brom would have killed him if he could see this.

_I think someone in that tavern recognized him when his scarf slipped, but it was only for a moment and the air was heavy with smoke. I'm not even sure if it was __**him**__ they recognized that raised all this alarm. I doubt they even know who they're really looking for._

_Perhaps this is a trap lain by the Ra'zac?_

_Perhaps. They're why we came here, after all. Or Jode's house was being watched._

_Be careful, little one._

_I will._

"If we don't do something, they'll close the gates soon," Eragon said, pulling himself back to reality and away from the window, climbing down the ancient wooden ladder, careful of the loudly protesting rungs.

"They haven't already?" Murtagh asked in disbelief.

Eragon shook his head. "I broke one of the chains with magic on our way in. I didn't want a repeat of Dras-Leona."

"Then I praise your foresight," Murtagh said, sounding impressed. He paused, appearing to think for a moment. "We could wait for nightfall-"

They fell silent as a troop of soldiers marched by, the force of their uniform, ironclad footsteps making the ground tremble faintly beneath their feet and the walls of the ancient stable creak ominously, sending dust raining down from the rafters.

Eragon and Murtagh held the horses' bridles tightly to calm them, and the tension only faded out of the air when the heavy trod faded from hearing.

"I take it back," Murtagh said quietly.

"The gates won't stay open forever," warned Eragon. "It won't take them long to fix the chains, especially once word reaches the wall that there are fugitives in the city, and there are soldiers outside searching the street. We need to do something, _now."_

Murtagh turned to him. "Then what do you suggest?"

Eragon was already in motion. He gathered Snowfire's reigns in one hand and swung himself up into the saddle, feeling grim and determined. "You always did like races," he reminded him.

Murtagh stared at him for a moment. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. "I did say that, didn't I?" he asked, turning and swiftly mounting Tornac. "Make a break for it?"

"Make a break for it," Eragon said, wheeling Snowfire around.

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><p>Thedor was an honest soldier, if anyone who voluntarily served the army of the Empire could be called honest. Work was scarce in the fishing village he had come from, and his father always did say that the Varden were a bunch of trouble-making, opportunistic rascals, so he had taken the chance. Being stationed at Teirm had proved to be quite interesting at first- though a little of the strict side, for his tastes. He was older, in his forties, and he was more inclined towards the loose, informal guard duty that suited Dras-Leona or Belatona rather than this orderly, militaristic dump. It was almost as bad as Gil'ead, and in some ways it was worse.<p>

Be that as it may, little excitement happened in Teirm, what with the pirates being too afraid to attack its shiny new walls, so when they were unsuspectingly dragged out of the tavern up the road and sent on a search through the city, it strayed a bit from the path of usual.

Then again, they were being pulled out of taverns quite often these days, what with the sudden increase in security in most of the northern cities.

"Find two men on a gray warhorse and white stallion?" he complained loudly to his comrades as they ducked into shop doors, overturned desks- much to the alarm of the protesting shopkeepers- and searched the ramshackle inns and houses that lined both sides of the street. "What the _hell_ kind of order is that?"

"My cousin is a captain up in the citadel," said Beron in his quiet, thoughtful voice, emerging from a stores closet. "I saw him just before I was called out. He says there were two men on a white stallion and grey warhorse leaving the house of a known Varden spy."

Carrin, a burly soldier from Belatona, grumbled angrily under his breath. "Known Varden spy," he muttered. "I swear every city's got an infestation at this point. No one's safe, you mark my words."

"They could dock their horses, and sneak right out," muttered Thedor, who was still ruffled about being dragged out of the tavern and into the cold. "Did anyone think of _that_?"

Carrin suddenly laughed. "Could be worse, Thedor," he called, as he briefly checked down a narrow, dead-end alley on the sewer of a street they were searching. "I know of a group that was drinking at The Black Dragon today, and a friend of mine among them swears he saw Murtagh _Morzanson_ inside, plain as day. Would you rather be lookin' for him?"

"Your friend's a drunk," grumbled Thedor flatly.

"He _was_ drunk. Gave us all a good laugh, though. I doubt he even knows what the Devil's spawn looks like, even if he was stationed in Uru'baen for a time."

Thedor shook his head. "Rebel spies," he muttered, unlatching the weathered wooden doors to an ancient, abandoned and half-rotten stable. "This is the bloody lowest end of the city. What spies are we going to find in he-"

The door suddenly blasted open on its own accord, knocking Thedor flat on his back, and the earth beneath him shook as long legs and sharp hooves thundered by in a flash, trampling the exact place he had just been standing, blowing his hair back from his face.

Thedor lay sprawled upon the ground for a moment in shock, and saw his slack-jawed expression reflected in his comrades, who stood staring after the fleeing, pale shapes of a white stallion and a grey warhorse in silence.

Then Beron suddenly came to life, dashing back down the street toward the command post with a hand on his sword hilt, shouting at the top of his lungs.

* * *

><p>They raced down the crowded streets as fast as they dared, tearing recklessly around corners and nearly colliding with people, carts, and other horses too many times to count. Screams of alarm and violent curses rang out in their wake, but Eragon and Murtagh did not look back once- even when one particularly angry vendor threw a cabbage at Eragon's head and missed by mere inches.<p>

Their horses' long strides ate the ground, hooves striking against the cobblestone like rolling thunder as they drove them towards the towering wall that rose above the buildings. They parted and rejoined repeatedly around the obstacles that blocked their path, weaving like water through the crowded streets. A group of soldiers rushed out onto the road as they flew past, shouting; Eragon caught the glitter of drawn swords out the corner of his eye.

Alarm bells suddenly fill the air with their cacophonous clanging, ringing out loudly over the perturbed voices of the crowds and the clatter of the horses' hooves. Eragon cursed and bent lower over Snowfire's neck, urging the stallion even faster, Murtagh keeping up step for step beside him, eyes glinting fiercely beneath his hood. They were already halfway to the gates.

A faint whistle and breath of air ghosted by Eragon's cheek, and an arrow buried itself into a wooden post next to him with a thud.

About ten soldiers exploded from around the corner, yelling and brandishing their swords, blocking their path. Eragon and Murtagh drew the horses up sharply, who wined and tossed their heads, front hooves leaving the ground.

A man with a spear leapt out and jabbed at Murtagh, the closest to the ambush. Murtagh leaned back wildly to avoid the blow, almost falling off of Tornac-and the maneuver caused his hood to fall back, revealing his face- and lashed out with his foot, the toe of his boot catching the soldier in the jaw beneath his helmet, sending him sprawling. More arrows rained down from above, hitting the wooden houses behind them with dull thuds and striking off the cobblestones below.

"Go!" shouted Murtagh, reining Tornac toward the open street on their left. They dove down it, galloping wildly around a sharp corner to get out of range of the archers and to try and reclaim their original course.

Eragon risked a wild glance over his shoulder, searching the rooftops, remembering all the things Brom had told him about the fortress-like design of Teirm and the archers who could see everything from the center of the city. He saw none, but that didn't mean more were not lying in wait. The closer to the gates they got, the more visible they would become.

_But they do not know a magician rides among us yet._

Gray houses flashed by in a blur on either side. They took sharp turns through the thin streets, trying to keep the buildings around them as shelter, galloping down sloping alleys so narrow their ankles skimmed the walls on either side. They raced around a corner-

And found a heavy wagon parked longways in the narrow alley, purposefully barring their passage to the other side. Two soldiers were standing before it, swords bared like dragon fangs. Behind, Eragon could hear the heavy clatter of hooves and shouts of their pursuers closing in- they had them cornered.

Fierce determination filled him like fire.

"Keep going," he called to Murtagh.

"Are you insane!?"

"Just do it!"

They dashed down the blocked path, picking up their speed. The soldiers braced themselves in front of the wagon, crying, "Halt!"

_I hope this works, _Eragon thought grimly. He reached within himself till he found the wellspring of his power and stood up in the stirrups, stretching a hand out to the object barring their path.

"_Brisingr_!" he cried.

The cart exploded violently, splinters of wood flying in every direction as blue flames consumed it and ate away the canvas covering. The soldiers were knocked forward off their feet by the force of the blast, falling face first onto the ground. The entire frame of the cart creaked and fell onto the stone as the wheels gave out, the axels of wood completely consumed.

They leapt straight through the wreath of shattered, flaming wreckage, bursting out into the great main street of Teirm. People screamed and threw themselves out of their path. Eragon and Murtagh took a hard right, toward the city's entrance- and exit.

Before them loomed the gigantic gate set into the fifty-foot thick walls, hanging open like a set of crooked jaws. The wider road meant more maneuverability, and it was less likely they would take a fatal fall or trample someone, but the open space put them at the mercy of the city's defenses. Eragon saw with dread that the battlements ahead were crowded with figures, black against the blazing blue sky; archers, he realized, lining every parapet on the wall.

They did not slow. The crowd was heavy and in chaos; people ran wildly from the road. Screams were heard as soldiers began streaming in from side streets and alleys between the houses, cutting off any escape, while a small troop mounted upon horses began thundering in behind them from down the road.

A deep horn suddenly blasted into the air, and with a grinding noise and a lurch, the great gates of Teirm began to close.

_No!_

Eragon and Murtagh urged the horses on with all of their might. The stallions leapt forward, practically flying over the ground. Bent low over Snowfire's neck, the wind stung Eragon's eyes and dust kicked up from their hooves as the distance between the great white gates grew smaller. Beside him Murtagh stared at the gates with an equally fierce, determined expression, long hair streaming back in the wind.

A command was yelled out upon the wall, and the archers loaded their bows and drew their arms back. A great volley of arrows launched forward with many whispering _twangs_, arcing through the air and speeding straight towards them.

Eragon raised his right hand and shouted "_Letta_!" The gedwey ignasia on his palm glowed like a faint star.

The arrows that came towards them halted in the air, before falling, clattering uselessly upon the ground. Shouts of alarm and exclamations of dismay went up from the soldiers.

The distance between them and the gates lessened. They were forty feet- thirty-five, thirty- and still the gates were closing as they rode forward with all their might, and Eragon entered the minds of the horses and urged them faster still, letting them feel his sense of peril, his panic-

Twenty-five, twenty, fifteen-

They were going to be crushed-

_Eragon-!_

The stallions tossed their heads wildly, and though they were already flying, with an effort born of fear- theirs and his- put on a last, desperate burst of speed, the kind of wings only blind terror can lend.

They flashed through the gates, which shut immediately behind them with a resolute thud, almost catching the hairs on Tornac's tail.

The force of their speed bore them quickly down the road and through the parted crowds streaming into the city.

_They made it._

Murtagh let loose a whooping shout of laughter, and Eragon felt himself grinning widely, adrenaline pounding in his veins and his relief so intense it was frightening. He had to halt more arrows a second time as the archers turned on them from the wall- and he sagged slightly in the saddle at the loss of strength- but the horses were fast bearing them away from the city, down the winding road, and they flew into the forest under the cover of the trees with a sense of exhilaration and freedom.

They had probably just made things ten times worse for themselves- the Ra'zac would know where they were, Murtagh's face had surely been recognized, and Eragon's hand had been glowing like a lantern for every soldier in Teirm to see- but in that moment, after such a terrifying flight, after such an incredible escape against such impossible odds when the consequences would have been so dire, none of it mattered. In that moment, as they galloped through the forest, free, in defiance of every force that would have it otherwise, as his fierce joy at their escape mingled with Saphira's, _none of it mattered_.

In that moment, it felt like they could do anything. In that moment, they were free.

* * *

><p>"Well, well," proclaimed the king softly, staring down into the basin of water in Teirm's citadel a week later. The room was very dark; the only light came from the basin, as though it held fire instead of water, reflecting up onto the king's face in waving lines of broken light, making the hollows of his eyes seem like tunnels of darkness beneath his brow, from which nothing more than an eerie, cold glitter of his eyes could be seen, like distant stars.<p>

Upon the rippling surface were the memories he had ripped from the archers upon the parapets and the soldiers in the alleys- the memories of two boys on mighty, galloping horses, racing daringly and recklessly through the city in a mad chase that had already spread in word far beyond the walls of Tierm. He watched as they leapt onto a street through a burst of blue fire and broken, charred wood, as they galloped madly down the roads through the crowds towards the closing gates, as the boy on the white stallion raised his hand and stopped an entire fleet of arrows, as they sped on ahead, _just slipping through_ before the great stone gate shut behind them. The surface of the water rippled, darkened, and then the memory began again, as though caught in a never-ending loop, and still the king bent over it, just as intrigued as the first thirty times he had watched it.

The captains of the guard stationed within the room watched him nervously, struggling to keep from trembling- _they're all right, all the stories are true, he really is mad after all_- but Galbatorix paid them no mind. He did not look away from the basin; he scarcely blinked.

While at first he had been enraged upon hearing about two young Varden rebels who had been allowed to escape form the most heavily fortified city on the coast, after a daring chase through the streets that would be remembered for months, he later became interested upon hearing that one of the boys was Morzan's little run away brat, and now he was…

_Intrigued_.

Fate did indeed have a most curious way of operating…and he was not certain if it pleased him or enraged him or, dare he say it, almost troubled him…

His hands moved over the water slowly, and the water rippled and then flattened and stilled, and the memory slowed, the figures upon the surface of the water moving as slowly as fog creeping over the mountains of the Spine; the flowing manes and tails of the horses, the rhythm of the riders, the scattered, faceless people who threw themselves from the road, the arrows that the archers let loose upon the sky...

… and the arm that the boy riding next to Murtagh raised, the hand he stretched out as he halted the arrows with a single word; the shining oval upon his palm, glowing like silvery fire….the same mark Galbatorix had upon his hand, hovering above.

He moved a finger, and the image froze, like a portrait painted upon the surface of the water.

"My, my, Murtagh," he said in a soft voice to himself, his fingertips hovering over the face of the brown-haired, brown-eyed, silver-palmed boy, as though with a word, he could reach out and pull him from the waters to his side- the boy that kept eluding him, kept slipping through his grasp, time and time again. "What _interesting_ company you keep these days."

And then, to everyone else's horror in the room, Galbatorix smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>I LOVED writing Galbatorix. Loved, loved, LOVED it. I had difficulty trying to express how much Galbatorix wanted to catch Eragon, though- how much of a desire to possess him there is, without sounding all creepy slashy, so I tried to let the body language speak for itself. Hope it was well enough conveyed!<strong>

**Also, Eragon and Murtagh blaming each other for getting recognized when in fact, it was for another reason altogether is something I could totally see happening. Hope you got a laugh out of that.**

**P.s 2:03 is the part of the song where I imagine the gates begin closing, and they start racing faster and faster... just in case you want the full effect as I saw it :)**


	6. Hope

**A/N; Short, light-hearted, and not very good, but I put it up nonetheless- mainly because it's all I have finished, and I think everyone deserves something after that last intense chapter. Takes place after Inheritance, in line with the events of chapter 3 (it's the one that featured Arya and Eragon- I think).**

**Thanks to everyone who left lovely reviews, favorited, or alerted this fic! Y'all keep me writing! **

**Enjoy!**

**P.S Yo, anon…keep up the good work.**

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><p>"What do you think?" Eragon asked, showing Murtagh the sketch the elven spellcasters had created for him.<p>

Murtagh took the sketchpad and gazed down at the drawings for a moment before giving his brother a critical glance.

"A many-rayed sun?"

"I was thinking of outlining it in gold. Or maybe silver."

Murtagh handed the pad back to Eragon. "Shouldn't the new sigil of the Dragon Riders be…I don't know…perhaps a dragon?" His voice was as utterly flat as the landscape of the Hadarac desert, as though he was pointing out the most obvious thing in the world.

Eragon gave him a ruffled glare. "That's a little redundant, don't you think?"

Murtagh seemed to consider this for a moment. "True," he admitted. "But it's certainly fitting."

"That's like asking why the symbol of Durgrimst Ingeitum isn't a dwarf. Or why the standard of the Elves isn't a pointed ear."

"Your mind wanders in strange places, brother."

"It's a valid comparison," Eragon argued.

Murtagh snorted. "Or some things never change."

Eragon struggled not to roll his eyes and folded the cover back over the paper.

"Tell me," Murtagh said after a brief silence, sounding thoughtful, "why the sun?"

"Because it's fire," Eragon said. "I thought that represented the dragons well- and thus an easy and logical symbol to associate with the Riders. I remember when we went to the Hadarac desert, and Saphira loved the heat, and the sun." His gaze grew distant. "Also, it makes me think of light, and light is hope. And if there is one thing the Riders can give, if there is one thing the world needs… it's hope."

Murtagh looked at him for a moment, before taking the sketchpad back and studying it briefly. "I'll carve this onto the floor in the Great Hall, then," he said, and left without another word.

Eragon shook his head. _Brothers_.

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><p><strong>AN; To Guest; I can't PM ya, cause you left your 2 reviews anonymously, so I'll just answer here and hope you see; first off, thanks for your lovely reviews! I think you gave me more credit than I deserved though, cause there wasn't really a back story to the previous chapter…I just really wanted to write a run-through-the-city scene with Eragon and Murtagh cause I couldn't get 'Train Escape' out of my head, whether it fit the time line or not. So, in my mind, the last chapter didn't happen because Eragon was avoiding the Varden...it just happened because I felt like writing it :) **


	7. Break

**A/N; Ten points and a cookie to everyone who reviews. Seriously, the more people review, the faster I get new chapters uploaded. so if you appreciate it at all, please let me know!**

**As always, enjoy!**

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><p>Murtagh sat upon the canopy bed within his-<p>

_prison_-

-princely quarters, a bowl of white porcelain filled with clear water in his hands. His fine tunic was ripped in several places, and his knuckles were bruised and scraped- again.

Galbatorix would probably punish him severely for starting another fight with his soldiers, or he would laugh, depending on his mood. Considering that Eragon and Saphira had just killed his Ra'zac- a fact Murtagh was secretly pleased with- he doubted he would find Galbatorix in a good one.

He stared at the reflective surface in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. He imagined that the pale light he saw on the surface of the water was actually the blaze of the ice-capped mountains of the Beors, or that the warm candlelight that caught the lip of the bowl was actually the sun, far to the south of here, in the golden Hadarac desert. He imagined the ripples that spread across the surface when his hands moved slightly was actually the breath of the wind that blasted across the vast western plains, far away at the foot of the dark ridges of the Spine.

He imagined he was far away. Anywhere. Anywhere that wasn't here.

And then his lips moved without him really giving them consent to- his brain had shut down, his thoughts empty; he doesn't know what he's doing.

"_Draumr kopa."_

The surface rippled, then darkened. He can't see Nasuada- he never can.

"_Draumr kopa."_

Even to him, the words sounded empty and lifeless. He knew he wouldn't see anything- this is just another one of the things he does, sometimes, as useless as beating on the stone walls of his-

_prison_-

-rooms with his bare fists, trying to beat a way out.

And then, something happened that he did not expect.

The water rippled, darkened…and became illuminated with an image of Eragon upon its surface.

Murtagh nearly dropped the bowl in shock. His fingers slipped against the stone as he regained his hold just in time, and the image distorted wildly as water sloshed up out of the bowl and onto his boots.

Murtagh paid no mind to the wetness seeping in through the dark cloth, instead his gaze focused intensely on the small image within the bowl. He murmured quietly in the ancient language- _be still_- and the surface again became like glass.

Eragon was kneeling upon the ground inside a tent, unpacking things from a ratty bag- it looked like cloth-wrapped pieces of armor- and stowing them under a cot. He looked utterly exhausted; there was a loose, weary air about the way he moved, his clothes were travel-stained and worn through, and a smudge of dirt darkened his cheek, tempering some of the fair glow he now seemed to carry within his skin. Saphira was nowhere in sight.

As Murtagh stared at his brother's image upon the surface, disbelief, scorn, and anger welled up within him, all at the same time. How could Eragon be so _stupid_? Why did he let his wards down, or whatever it was that kept him from being scryed? What if one of Galbatorix's magicians tried to look for him now- or even the king himself? It wasn't likely, seeing as how no one had been able to see Eragon for months, but his carelessness was shocking. Why had he even bothered to let Eragon escape if he was just going to get himself-

Eragon, who had been sitting on the bed, searching for something beneath it, suddenly pulled out a long, thin shape wrapped in scraps of cloth. Murtagh felt his interest piqued- the shape was undeniably that of a sword. Had Eragon already taken up another, after Murtagh had taken Zar'roc from him during their last battle? He was interested in seeing what his adversary would be using in their next duel.

Slowly, bit by bit, Eragon unwound the strips of cloth from the weapon, revealing handle, hilt, and cross guard. When part of the gleaming blade was revealed, he stopped.

Murtagh stared.

It was his sword.

His sword, his nameless, hand-and-a-half sword that he had carried with him for years. The sword he had escaped from the empire with, the sword he had fought in Farthen Dur with…

The sword he had cast aside carelessly in the dirt, when he had taken his father's butchery tool instead, simply because he could, and because Eragon was powerless to stop him.

Eragon gazed at the sword for a long time, holding it across his legs. His eyes roved from the pommel to the blade, which was notched and jagged as a saw from where Murtagh had blocked Eragon's impossibly powerful strikes. The blade should have been rusted, after a night of exposure to the elements- but, even though it was ragged and worn, the metal gleamed as though polished to perfection.

Eragon had removed all the rust from it. Eragon had gone back, retrieved his sword from where he had dropped it, and cleaned it. He had kept it, where no one could see.

His brother's gaze, though harder to read then when he had been just a boy when they were traveling through the wilderness, was unguarded now, and Murtagh could see some kind of conflict within his distant eyes, consumed with thoughts as deep as the sea. Though it was impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking, Murtagh imagined he saw something else there, too. Something that was readable. And edge of sorrow, and maybe pain…

Eragon opened his mouth, as though to speak, and then paused. He blinked, and a resigned look came upon his face, and he re-wrapped the sword, placing it back beneath the cot. He stood then, stretched, and walked over to a stand with a basin, picking up a bundle of clothes and slipping a necklace- some kind of plain metal pendant- over his neck.

The image vanished, and the water darkened to blackness once again.

Murtagh stared at the empty surface in silence for a long time without moving, long after Eragon's likeness was gone. Then, in a single, shatteringly swift motion, he hurled it against the stone wall, where it broke into a hundred pieces in a starburst of white.

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><p><strong>Is he bitter? Angry? Frustrated? You decide :)<strong>


	8. Love Hurts

**AU; set in the 'What If' universe, where Murtgh remains with the Varden and is never captured by the Twins. Takes place in late Brisingr. Also; I refer to the boys as brothers occasionally, but I'm not sure if they know that they're brothers yet in this universe. **

**Also, a note; I love Eragon in this chapter. Yes, I've already given you Eragon on drugs, I just couldn't leave well enough alone with altered states of consciousness, could I? I find I love writing him like that- when the farm boy makes an occasional appearance and is just so damn adorable. that's what he's meant to be seen as in this chapter; disarmingly adorable, and I hope it worked.**

**This may be a little bit of a stretch for remaining IC…let me know what you think! I wrote it a while ago and just finished. But I'm really starting to feel the burnout, you guys…I still have a lot of ideas, but the effort it's taking to finish them is draining me a bit, and other fandoms are starting to call my name. If you want me to finish this (oh gosh I sound like an attention ho but who cares?) PLEASE REVIEW. Each and every one counts :)**

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><p>The riotious laughter that reached them from the tent ahead almost swept them off their feet. Then again, it was the laughter that could be heard throughout much of the Varden that night- for they had much to celebrate for, indeed, what with Feinster being won at last.<p>

At his side, Nasuada calmly clasped her hands before herself and continued to walk calmly and with pride, as serene as a spirit. Murtagh, her guard for that night- though it could hardly be called guard-duty when wandering around the camp at sunset and talking for at least an hour had become a tradition long ago- wondered, for not the first time, why Nasuada didn't celebrate with them. Murtagh had his own reasons- but then, he supposed the leader of the Varden probably had to keep a clear head, too.

They nodded to Saphira's gigantic glittering form as they passed, and she acknowledged them with a slight dip of her giant head, sparkling in the light of the moon and the torches staked into the ground.

Inside the tent was warm, almost hot, and filled with sound. The villagers of Carvahall- plus Orik, who sat with Eragon, Roran, and Katrina- were all seated or standing around the long wooden tables, which were laden with empty plates of food and mug after mug of mead, which had been poured from several punctured barrels in the corner, filling the air with a heady scent.

Roran spotted them and made to get up. He swayed suddenly on his feet, and lightly touched the back of his chair to maintain his balance, and then proceeded carefully around the table towards them.

Murtagh found himself frowning as he examined Roran's movements. How long had they been celebrating for?

No one else had noticed them yet- Eragon appeared to be thoroughly distracted by whatever story Katrina was so animatedly telling, and Murtagh found he preferred it that way.

Being around Eragon's villagers made him…uncomfortable. One can only take the weight of so many judgmental stares at once, and though they may have been good people, they weren't like much of the Varden. They seemed to fear magic, and seemed uncertain around even Eragon at times.

Much less a son of the Forsworn.

* * *

><p>"Hail, Lady Nasuada!" Orik suddenly bellowed, raising his mug, "and hail, Lightningsword!"<p>

Eragon looked up and saw, with some difficulty focusing, that Murtagh and Nasuada had entered the tent and were talking to Roran near the flap. Nasuada looked cool and calm, as usual- and Murtagh, _grim_ as usual, casting the loud, cheering visitors and uneasy glance, looking slightly uncomfortable- and Eragon took notice.

And then he grinned.

The room spun a bit, and Orik laughed loudly at whatever Katrina had said, leaving a strange ringing in Eragon's ears.

What exactly had they been drinking again?

* * *

><p>"Roran," Nasuada said suddenly, her voice taking on a hard edge. "What is that bottle in your hand?"<p>

Roran blinked blearily down at the bottle, and then shook his head, like a horse bothered by flies. "Dunno," he murmured. "Elves gave it to us."

Nasuada sighed as though her fears had been confirmed. "That's faelnirv," she told him.

Murtagh glanced at her curiously. "What's faelnirv?"

"A liquor made by the elves," Nasuada replied, her gaze travelling from the bottle to the boisterous company, "and four times as potent as anything human or even dwarvish hands can brew."

Roran continued to stare down at the bottle, blinking. "Not good," he muttered.

"What did you put it in?"

The man was already reaching for a water tankard on a table in the corner of the tent. "Everything."

Nasauda sighed again while Murtagh gave the villagers a hard glance. He had thought Roran would be more cautious than that- although, Elvish remedies did seem to have a strange, dismarming effect on mortal men, be it the fire in their flasks or the strange music of their minds, and if it was a good gift, then it made sense they would make use of it.

"Should I have them stop?" asked Roran.

Murtagh returned his gaze to the conversation at hand and saw that Roran was looking a bit better- and his face a bit wet, as though he had splashed it with the tankard.

"They may continue," Nasuada replied. "Many are celebrating this night, so few will mind- or I daresay, even notice the noise, or whatever lateness of the hour. As long as you ensure they do not become too affected or rowdy-"

A speeding, brown-haired blur suddenly slammed into Murtagh's stomach, driving the air from his lungs with an "oof!" and lifting him clean off his feet, sending them crashing into the ground a good five paces away from where he had originally been standing.

Murtagh thrashed around in alarm, and his knuckles struck something soft, and then the weight began to roll off of him and Murtagh shoved it off the rest of the way and he sat up to-

"What the-" Murtagh blinked, narrowed his eyes and frowned ferociously. "_Eragon_!" he roared.

Eragon raised a shaky finger in his brother's general direction. "Got you," he wheezed.

Murtagh seemed too furious for words. "Got…?"

"Got you," repeated Eragon, and then his head hit the ground and he was positively roaring with laughter.

Murtagh tore his murderous gaze away from his inebriated brother and met the wide-eyed gazes of the villagers and one amused-looking Orik. He glared at them for a moment, as though daring them to comment, and then turned that glare on Nasuada, who- wonder of wonders- was violently fighting a smile.

"I think," Nasuada said lightly, lips twitching- "that Eragon seems to think you could relax a little."

Orik chuckled loudly, and then raised his mug. "Let it be sung in all the tongues in tales across the land that the mighty Eragon Shadeslayer, Dragon Rider, found defeat at last- at the end of a bottle of Faelnirv!"

At that the tent positively erupted with laughter, which only grew- probably with the help of the liquor- as Orik began to tell them a tale of when Saphira had gotten drunk in Tronjheim and toppled over and knocked herself out after attempting to bow to a company of dwarves.

Murtagh, whose father had found very real defeat at the end of a bottle- and who bore the scars to show for it- did not laugh. It was likely Orik didn't know the exact reason for that story, however, and his words held cheer. It was impossible to be entirely grim in such merry company- or it would be, had he not felt then like he had been tackled by a Kull. Eragon wasn't a short fifteen-year-old boy anymore; he had the strength of an Elf.

After Roran had offered him a hand up, Murtagh stared down at Eragon and sighed heavily. He didn't tolerate drunks, and he could feel bruises beginning to form on his back- and Eragon looked like he needed someone to save him…again.

Nasuada suddenly appeared at his side. "Though perhaps it would be best if he retires early," she said with a smile, gazing down at the young Rider.

"I was just thinking the same."

"I believe Saphira is outside. She can fly him back to his tent- and avoid the crowds." As Murtagh bent to retrieve Eragon, Nasuada stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He turned to her, and she smiled softly. "Go easy on him. I doubt he'll even remember this come morning."

Murtagh sighed. But her words also reminded him of one of the reasons he had come to respect her so much- even though Eragon was her vassal, she cared about him a great deal- personally.

"I'll make sure he gets there," Murtagh promised, kneeling at Eragon's side.

"Here," said Roran, taking Eragon's other arm. Together they pulled the young boy up and slung his arms over their shoulders, half-guiding, half-dragging him out of the tent.

It was a cold, dark, blue world outside compared to the golden, warm atmosphere they had just left. A gust of cold hair skidded off Murtagh's cheeks and made his eyes water, and he narrowed them against the wind. Saphira was crouched a few feet away, watching them alertly with her sapphire gaze fixed on her Rider. The tip of her tail was twitching.

"He'll be fine," Roran assured her.

Smoke blew out of her nostrils.

Together they somehow got Eragon up into the saddle- with Roran pushing from below and Murtagh pulling from above, before Murtagh finally got a good grip on his shirt and managed to haul him up and dump him into the molded leather.

When Murtagh dropped back to the ground to secure Eragon's legs into the saddle so he didn't accidently fall out and kill himself- now that would be a tale to be told in all the tongues- Roran surprised him by quietly murmuring, "He must truly like you."

Murtagh paused in the act of tightening one of the complicated straps, spine stiffening with caution. "What do you mean?"

Roran's eyes were hard and clear in the moonlight and the glow of the torches that surrounded the tent. "That's how we used to act as boys together- playing and wrestling and such," Roran said. "It's how all boys acted in Carvahall- how brothers act." He looked over at Murtagh with an unflinching gaze. His words are complimentary, but the iron tone in them makes them sound more like a challenge- a warning of a bond and of trust not to break. "I didn't think I'd ever see Eragon show that side of himself to anyone outside of Carvahall, now that he's a Rider. And for them to see him act this way with you…they will start to trust you, too."

Murtagh stared back at him, at a loss of what to say. And then finally-

"He's _drunk_."

Roran grunted. "Take it how you want it."

He gave Saphira's scaly side a pat and then vanished back inside the tent, leaving Murtagh staring after him in surprise.

* * *

><p>The flight back to the tent was rather uneventful- Eragon didn't even stir until after they had touched down. Even if it was a brief flight, it still somewhat exhilarated Murtagh- he could see now why Eragon loved it so much.<p>

The feeling of another person's consciousness pressed against his suddenly, and Murtagh paused in the act of pulling of the straps in alarm- until he looked up and saw Saphira staring at him with one large, sapphire eye.

Cautiously, he lowered his barriers. He hated the feeling of vulnerability.

_I will lower myself to the ground as much as I can_, Saphira said. _It may be wise to leave water out for him, to help clear his head. _

_I'll be sure to do that._

She snorted again, and for the second time that night he watched as smoke blew up into the sky, flames licking the inside of her nose, and he detects a feeling of teasing coming off her alien consciousness in waves. _I hope you're ribs are not too bruised, Murtagh-Eragon's-friend._

_I'll be fine. And I wouldn't worry about Eragon, either. This is only the second time I've seen him drunk, and he's possibly the happiest drunk I've ever seen._

_He'll not be feeling happy come morning._

"Aye," said Murtagh aloud, replacing his barriers and sliding down to the ground.

Eragon stirred faintly in the saddle. "S'mornin?"

Had he heard their conversation?

Murtagh freed the straps from his legs. "Close enough."

"Where'd Roran go?"

"He's still in the tent."

"Where'd Roran go?"

Murtagh sighed. Saphira let out a low rumble and leaned slightly to the left. Eragon began to slide down out of the saddle, and Murtagh caught him under the arms just before he could crumple into a heap on the ground.

"To bed, Shadeslayer," he said, slinging Eragon's arm over his shoulders.

Eragon suddenly pulled on his shirt insistently. " It's so beautiful," he said, craning his head back and staring at the stars.

Murtagh grunted and resumed pulling him toward the tent.

"We're so lucky to be alive," Eragon said- and even drunk, Murtagh knows what he's talking about; the battle of Feinster. Then he says something else, in the Ancient Language- is he reciting Elvish _poetry_? Had Eragon become _that_ well-read in Ellesmera- that he'd recite literature while intoxicated? "Don't you think, Murtagh? We're alive, we're so lucky to be alive."

The truth was, yes, but this wasn't a conversation he wanted to have right now. Murtagh looked over at Saphira desperately, but she merely made a low, rasping noise deep within her throat- a dragon's version of a chuckle- and refused to move.

"Is that why you attacked me?" asked Murtagh. "To make me feel _alive_?"

Eragon snickered. "You needed to loosen up," he mumbled.

Murtagh staggered inside the dark tent with Eragon, cursing when his foot struck a helmet lying upon the ground, and dumped his brother on the bed. Eragon curled into a ball on his side and promptly went to sleep.

"Angvard help me," said Murtagh.

* * *

><p>When Eragon awoke the next morning his head was pounding. The light seared his eyes, making him groan and throw an arm across his face to try and block out whatever <em>infernal <em>place it was coming from. His shoulder strangely ached, and his mouth tasted like-

He was going to be sick.

He went utterly still, dreading whatever was about to happen, but his stomach seemed to settle, and he let out a quiet breath of relief.

_Sleep well_? Saphira's voice seemed to echo strangely around inside his head. She couldn't sound more smug if she tried.

_Sleeping wasn't the bad part. It's waking up._

_I've told you before not to drink_, she chided. _This is what always happens._

_I seem to remember you getting drunk before. And that was one time in sixteen years!_

_An experience I have no intention of repeating. How do you feel?_

He actually had to cast around for an adequate description for a moment_. Like every dwarf in the Beor Mountains is using my head as an anvil._

_I would suggest washing up, if you can move. There is a basin full of water by the sink._

It took Eragon a moment to gather the courage to roll onto his side. After the rolling waves of nausea passed, he relaxed his grip on the edge of the cot and slowly sat up, inch by inch. _I don't even remember getting here last night._

_That is probably for the best_, Saphira said lightly. _Though I flew you back directly from the big tent, so no one would see._

_Thank you._

He felt her brief acknowledgment in reply. After a while, Eragon staggered over to the basin and gratefully dipped his hands in the water. It was chilly from being left in the stone for so long, and it felt refreshing against his skin. Significantly revived, Eragon began to dry his face on a spare cloth, when all of a sudden he pressed against a tender place, and winced.

Confused, Eragon looked up to examine his face in the mirror set above the basin- and balked at what he saw.

A fine bruise was forming just along the edge of his jaw- purple tinged with yellow on the edge. _Did I do something embarrassing last night!? _

_Nothing unforgiveable, unless you count body-tackling Murtagh to the ground._ Amusement rolled off of her in waves. _ I believe he may have accidentally struck you thrashing around while you were on top of him, though you certainly didn't feel it at the time._

_WHAT!?_

Saphira finally offered her memories to him, and he let her show him everything she received from him last night- the well-lit tent, the faelnirv-spiked beer, the roaring laughter of the villagers. He even felt a brief, faint echo of his emotions- contentment and happiness and peace and cheer. He watched in slight horror as Murtagh and Nasuada entered the tent and spoke briefly with Roran- the memory was growing very fuzzy now, spinning, as watched while seated upon a twirling swing, and he attributed it to the alcohol that affected his senses then.

He felt his own reckless happiness, his slyness, and determination.

And watched as he collided with an unsuspecting Murtagh like a battering ram, elf-enhanced strength and all.

Saphira withdrew them from the memory, and Eragon stood there in stunned silence for a moment, head still spinning from watching himself act like a fifteen year old boy back in Palancar Valley_. I guess that explains the shoulder, then._

_I believe it was because you wanted him to 'loosen up' a little, as you then put it. I've seen similar memories in your mind from your childhood with Roran._

Eragon leaned forward and deliberately banged his aching head against the basin.

* * *

><p>That morning, as Murtagh walked to his post outside of Nasuada's tent, he passed a gentle-looking woman he recognized from Eragon's village who had been at the party last night- Brigit, he thought her name was.<p>

Murtagh, walking with slow, easy strides, was looking down and concentrating on pulling on his gloves beneath his gauntlets- he'd been a bit late when he'd left that morning. He glanced up to make sure none were in his path, and his gaze invariably alighted on the woman- Brigit- sitting outside a yellow tent, knitting something with orange cloth in her lap, chatting with Angela, the Herbalist. Solembum was nowhere to be seen.

As he passed, Brigit looked up at him, and smiled softly.

Murtagh was so unprepared for her reaction that he glanced behind him to see who she was looking at, and finding no one, looked back in shock.

Angela- ever observant- threw back her head and cackled at his expense, before offering a merry wave, long needles clacking together from the green and black…_whatever_ it was that was lying in an unwoven heap in her lap.

And as he waved back, inclining his head…Murtagh couldn't help but wonder if there had been some truth to Roran's words, and, if in some bizarre back-country way, Eragon had somehow humanized him to these people with so natural a gesture.

* * *

><p><strong>Yes. I just played the 'Eragon humanized the son of Morzan by body-tackling him like a couple of boys in front of an entire village' card. No regretz.<strong>

**This is the kind of thing my guy friends would do to each other sometimes- they were pretty athletic, so they never hurt themselves, and they were always laughing while they did it, so it really made us think of them like brothers. As I understand it, Viggo Morternsen would rugby-tackle Sean Bean into the snow while filming Lord of the Rings, and that's how they became BFFs. Dawww.**


	9. Fracture

**A/N; This is dedicated to the BEST REVIEWERS EVER! Seriously, you guys deserve this. Sorry for my radio silence- life got pretty crazy,a nd then Supernatural and the the Mortal Instruments and then Star Wars decided to take over my life (not kidding about the fandom cycling) and then add a school shooting and a bunch of exams and my mom's birthday, and...ergo, radio silence.**

**As it is, I'm amazed I updated this story as much as I did- and it's all because of YOU guys! Y'alls reviews are what kept me going, so don't forget to leave some feedback if you want to hear more!**

**This is part one of an AU. Takes place around the beginning of Eldest.**

* * *

><p>"I want to speak with you about Murtagh," Ajihad admitted, turning away from the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The golden threads on his tunic gleamed in the torchlight.<p>

"What about him?" asked Eragon. "Are you going to let him go?"

"That is my decision, yes. He has more than proven himself not to be a threat." Ajihad gave a rueful smile as he sat behind his desk. "Truthfully, I find myself admiring his boldness and his courage. In spite of the many obstacles he's no doubt faced and the circumstances of his birth, he has an abhorrence for evil and cruelty, and a desire to cast aside his father's looming shadow and be his own man…and he's a phenomenal warrior. We need more men like him."

Eragon's jaw dropped. "You're _recruiting_ him?" he asked in disbelief.

At that, Ajihad shook his head. "No. I see only trouble down that road. Maybe not now, and maybe not a week from now, but invariably, having a son of the Forsworn among the Varden would cause great unrest and even danger- for us, and for him."

"Or it would prove to everyone that even those who should be loyal to Galbatorix have turned on him," pointed out Eragon. "Even the children of his closest servants- it might convince some of the loyalists of the Empire to turn on Galbatorix."

Ajihad rested his elbows on the mahogany surface of his desk and steeped his fingers together. "Be that as it may, being with the Varden must be an act of choice, Eragon. Murtagh may have no love for Galbatorix, but you and I both know he doesn't truly support our cause. This crusade of ours is something that you have to devote your entire being to, with your last breath. Murtagh didn't come here to join our ranks. He came here for you."

To that, Eragon had no response- because he knew Ajihad was absolutely right.

"I've agreed to allow Murtagh to leave, on the condition that the location of the Varden be removed from his mind," Ajihad continued when Eragon made no reply. "The only problem is getting him to grant access to his mind, since that's what caused all this trouble in the first place…since you do not yet possess the skill for memory removal, I was considering Arya to be an appropriate choice."

"That would be wise," admitted Eragon. Murtagh was more inclined to trust Arya, given that she was an Elf and all they had been through together- and Arya was so stoic and serious that one couldn't help but believe that, even if she saw snipets of Murtagh's thoughts in the process, she probably wouldn't care what he thought, and because- as her consciousness had indicated to Eragon- she so alien from humans that she wouldn't judge him for it. She was also skilled enough that she would do exactly what was required of her, and no more.

"Does he plan on traveling with you to the edge of Du Weldenvarden?" asked Ajihad, pulling Eragon from his thoughts. "You'll be leaving close to the same time as him."

"I doubt it. It's a long way, and we've gotten him into enough trouble as it is."

"Nothing he holds against you, I'm sure," said Ajihad, smiling slightly.

"I did warn him," Eragon said, responding with a slight smile of his own. Murtagh had jumped in with eyes wide open from the very beginning, so to speak. Eragon fiddled with the wire wrapping on the hilt of Zar'roc for a moment in silence before quietly admitting, " I don't want him to go."

A deep, wise look entered Ajihad's eyes- and, perhaps, a slight gleam of pity. "That is only to be expected, given everything you've been through together. But every man must follow his own path, Eragon…yours lies with the Elves and with the very fate of Alagaesia. Murtagh must choose his own way, and decide what kind of man he wishes to be."

Eragon sighed slightly with defeat. "I know."

Ajihad leaned back in his chair, looking somewhat bemused. "I never thought I'd see the say that a Rider finally came to the Varden. I never in my wildest dreams imagined he would arrive with a solemn friendship with the son of Morzan. I'm sure you'll see him again someday."

"Thank you for treating him with such kindness," Eragon said earnestly. "You were fair, but you weren't vindictive or vengeful, as many might have been…I would have hated for any harm to come to him on my account. Saphira and I won't forget this."

Saphira released a puff of smoke- showing off, Eragon was sure- and dipped her head once in a bob of agreement.

Ajihad nodded back to her, a look of extreme respect in his eyes. "The Varden pride ourselves on setting deeds and achievements above birthright. Murtagh will be remembered fondly here."

_Hm. And I thought it was because they were so desperate for sword arms after the battle that their opinions changed towards him._

_There are good people here. We made the right choice in finally choosing a side._

_Aye. _

With a final bow and an exchange of farewell, Eragon and Saphira left.

* * *

><p>After lunchtime, Eragon was wondering around in the halls, looking for Arya. Saphira was still in the dining hall, finishing off the cattle carcasses that had been slaughtered for her, and Orik was busy off with Durgrimst Igetium business, so Eragon figured now was a good a time as any to question Arya further about the journey that lay ahead of them to Elemera. It was a good enough reason- though he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was just an excuse.<p>

Murtagh was leaving today, and Eragon was going to see him soon to send him off, but…

He didn't want to say goodbye. He was stalling, and he didn't want anyone to notice his misery, so he was drifting along aimlessly, buying time, running his hands over the cool stone of the rounded passageways, deep in thought as he let his feet carry him.

He turned around a corner- this one lit with windows- and halted in surprise.

The hallway was not deserted- Angela was sitting on a small stool against a wall, a vast array of plants laid out around her, knitting something animatedly in her lap. Solembum was sitting at her feet, tail curled around his paws and twitching at the tip, his eerie red gaze fixed on Eragon.

As Eragon approached, Angeal looked up and beamed. "Ah, thought I might see you passing by. I've been meaning to talk to you. How's the back?"

Other than a small spasm of pain a few nights ago- perfectly normal and to be expected- Eragon hadn't had much trouble since he'd woken up with the awful scar.

"It's fine. You must have great skill as a healer- you saved my life."

Angela waved her hand airily. "Pish posh, that's what I say. Consider it returning a favor for killing Durza and saving us all during the battle. Guess we're even now, eh?"

Eragon smiled slightly and leaned against the opposite wall. "Guess so."

Angela nodded, and the only sound for a moment was her needles clicking in the silence. Then she asked, "And what, may I ask, are you doing wandering these halls by yourself? I figured you'd have quiet the full schedule these days, Shadeslayer. Not that it isn't perfectly normal to drift around- a little drifiting is good, I say- but you look as though someone trampled all over your garden of Nightshade."

"What's nightshade?" Eragon asked automatically.

Angela laughed. "Never you mind," she said. She looked at him, and the clicking of her needles slowly halted. "_Are_ you alright, Eragon?"

"I'm fine."

She gave a knowing smile of realization then. "So, Murtagh's leaving, eh?" she asked.

Eragon blinked. "How did you-?"

"Can't give away all my secrets, can I? Where's the fun in that?"

Eragon sighed and folded himself on the ground in front of her, sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor. "Yes, he's leaving."

"And you don't want him to go," said Angela.

"No."

She glanced up at him, a knowing look in her eyes. "It's for the best."

Eragon wrapped his fingers around a loose thread in the stitching on the heel of his leather boots. "That's what people keep saying."

"Then it must be true, mustn't it?" asked Angela, her needles click-clacking together as she knitted. "Of course, then that means everything everyone said would always be true- and as we well know with toads and frogs-"

On she went, and Eragon found himself smiling as he listened to her, feeling his spirits lift.

"Have you sent him off yet?" she asked suddenly.

Eragon frowned and shook his head, looking down the hallway.

"Then what are you waiting for!" exclaimed Angela. "Prolonging goodbyes doesn't make them any easier- trust me, I speak from experience. He's probably waiting for you, you know. He won't leave until he sees you."

Eragon sighed heavily. "I know," he said, staring down at the floor between his feet. He slowly climbed up, careful not to stretch his back, and nodded to Angela and Solembum before walking off down the hall, the clacking of Angela's needles following him into silence.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, Nasuada came sweeping regally down the same hall, halting once she reached Angela, her eyes raking over the strange array of plants.<p>

"Hello, Angela," Nasuada greeted the witch. She'd always appreciated Angela's bizzare sense of humor, even as a child.

"Ah, Nasuada," the witch replied cheerfully. "And how are you this fine, gloomy morning?"

"Gloomy?" Nasuada asked in amusement. "I thought the weather was wonderful."

"Not that one can tell easily, being trapped inside a gigantic mountain and all," Angela added. "Of course, 'fine' was an assessment of the weather of this day, but 'gloomy' was more along the lines of the _feeling_ of this day, from what I've seen so far. It doesn't look so gloomy for you, however. How's the arm?"

Nasuada glanced down at the pale bandage wrapped around her upper arm from where she'd been cut by a dagger. "It is well, thank you. It has healed enough that one of the spellcasters was able to finish it with magic. Your medicine worked wonders- not that I had any doubts it would, after you healed Eragon."

"Ah, Eragon. He passed by just before you did."

"How is he?" Nasuada asked.

"Gloomy. Murtagh is leaving today."

"I heard," she said sadly.

Angela looked at her sharply. "And the day becomes gloomier still." She cackled suddenly. "Curious, isn't it, how he seemed to find the most friends in what is possibly the most hostile place for him to be? Fate has a curious way of doing things. But then again, he did befriend Eragon before he even arrived here…curious indeed."

Nasuada looked at her quizzically. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."

Angela glanced at Solembum. "Never you mind- just an old witch's rambling. "Now tell me," she said, leaning forward with a frown of interest, "what happened with that patrol in the tunnels your father was leading the other day? I heard he and the Twins had a close call with some Urgals."

* * *

><p>When Eragon arrived to the quarters Murtagh had been assigned, he was disappointed to find it rather bare. All of Murtagh's possessions were on the bed, upon which Murtagh himself stood over, packing everything into his saddlebags. He really was leaving.<p>

Eragon hesitated in the door frame, and then Murtagh spoke, without turning around or looking up. "I was wondering when you were going to see me off."

Eragon took a few steps into the room. "I couldn't let you go without saying goodbye first, could I? Poor thanks that would be, after everything we've been through together."

Murtagh finally turned to him, and Eragon was surprised to see a soft, nostalgic smile on his face. "It would indeed. But I knew you better than that. I knew you'd show up eventually."

Silence briefly filled the space between them, as Eragon looked at Murtagh thoughtfully. He hadn't given up on trying to make him change his mind- on keeping Murtagh from disappearing as quickly as he had shown up in his life.

Murtagh must have read the calculating expression on his face, because he shook his head before Eragon could speak a word.

"I know what you're going to say, Eragon. And the answer is no. I'm not staying with the Varden- not now that you're leaving to go study with the Elves. I've agreed to let Arya remove my memories of the location of Farthen Dur- not that it will do much good, seeing as how Galbatorix already knows the Varden are here- and then I'm leaving."

He picked up his sword and scabbard and placed it on top of his saddlebag. "Besides, it's for the best," he continued, and a distant look entered his eyes. "Even Ajihad said so…there's no place for me here, and the only reason they let me stay this long was because they needed me- and because of you."

"You've earned their trust," Eragon argued. "I've seen how people's attitudes have changed towards you. You could do real good here, Murtagh- you could have something!"

Murtagh shot him a sidelong look. "You never do know when to give up, do you?"

"Not when I think it's worth it," Eragon says.

Murtagh sighed and stared down at his saddlebags blankly. "We've talked about this before, Eragon, and my decision is final. I'm leaving…it's for the best."

Eragon refused to meet Murtagh's gaze and stared downwards, scuffing his boot across the floor. "Where will you go?" he asked at last.

"Probably to the west. I've always wanted to visit Surda, and I highly doubt anyone would recognize me there- it's outside the empire, after all…don't look so downtrodden, Eragon. You'll probably be so busy with the Elves, I doubt you'll have much time to be missing me."

Eragon made a vague noise of disagreement, then glanced up and looked Murtagh in the eye. "You do realize that if anything happens to you, we're coming after you, right?" he asked roughly. "And it's a long flight from Du Weldenvarden to Surda, and that's a trip I'd rather not take unless we absolutely have to, so you'd better be careful."

Murtagh gave a wide, genuine smile- a very rare sight. "You, too. I won't be around to save you much longer."

Eragon sighed, and silence fell between them again, and all he could think was- _this is it, this is all, after everything we've been through, it's done_. There were times during their journey when he had wished Murtagh gone- they were far too much alike sometimes, and far too different at others- but now that Murtagh was actually leaving, his absence would leave a gaping hole that Eragon could feel looming on the horizon. This man is his best friend. He's the only one he's ever had, besides Roran, but Roran doesn't really count, because he's family. Murtagh is the only person Eragon has ever known who has stuck by him for absolutely no reason other than because he wanted to, who owed him nothing and yet displayed incredible loyalty because they became incredibly close because they genuinely liked each other. Brom too, but Brom was different- a mentor, a father. Murtagh, on the other hand…

Before Eragon say those final words_- thank you, goodbye_, Murtagh, who has been watching the expression on his face like he knows what he's about to say, interrupts him suddenly.

"Do you feel like sparring?"

"Right now?"

"I don't plan to leave for a few hours still. Just a simple spar- just like on the road."

Eragon can read between the lines and smiles because he understands.

"I'd love to."

* * *

><p>They circle each other on the practice fields in a dance they know all too well. The field is almost deserted- there is the weapons master Fredrick and two other men, and Eragon and Murtagh are the only ones sparring on the field. Everyone has had their fill of battle and bloodshed, after the attack on Farthen Dur- and the people watching probably think that the boys are either belligerent or have lost their minds, but for Eragon and Murtagh, this isn't about blowing off steam or staying in shape, and what they are doing and the significance of what it really means is lost on everyone else who is watching.<p>

It's honoring a tradition- a tradition that formed in the barren, bleak wilderness by the fireside that kept them lean and fit like a pair of matched blades; that first made them realize how alike they really were, that made them first respect one another, that ended in laughter because they realized they were so evenly matched. It's honoring that tradition, one last time.

To the men on the field, it is nothing more than a brilliantly matched, if a little inappropriately timed spar.

To Eragon and Murtagh, it is goodbye.

Eragon lunged, and Murtagh parried, dancing away, and the dance began. They wove around each other, thrusting, blocking, parrying- neither truly giving or gaining ground. And for a while, the world around Eragon faded and blurred, and there was nothing but this moment in time, nothing but the burn in his arms and the anticipation of the next attack and trusting his reflexes and the true _joy_ that came with using a sword when it is not used to end other being's lives. This was part of the reason he liked sparring with Murtagh so much- not only are they so evenly matched that he relished in the challenge, but it was so easy to slip into the routine, to let his instincts take over, to become one with hilt and blade. They are as equal in skill now as they have ever been; perhaps more so, for neither can truly win- they know each other too well. Through their mental link, he could feel Saphira observing with interest, a sense of affectionate familiarity filling her.

The spar began to drag on, into the phase when both knew they are beginning to tire. Eragon's arms started to burn and they _really_ shouldn't let it go on this long because Murtagh is going to need his strength when he leaves, and Eragon still has much to do with helping the cleanup of the battle, but he doesn't stop, and neither does Murtagh, as though neither is truly willing to let the duel end.

At last, Murtagh moved and Eragon saw an opening, and, extending himself for the first time, he lunged for it, careful to temper his blow so that he would not bruise Murtagh's side with the heavy, blunted blade, and Murtagh spun to the side to avoid his attack.

An explosion of pure _agony_ suddenly burst from Eragon's back, a white-hot line that burned from shoulder to hip, down along the scar Durza had given him, as though the very wound- healed though it was- had become aflame from the inside out, burning through his skin. It felt like his back had been laid open again.

It felt like he was going to die.

He dropped like a stone, spine arcing, a scream tearing itself out from somewhere deep within his throat as Murtagh's counter strike whipped over his head as he completed his spin, so close that it ruffled Eragon's hair as he fell, just inches below the blade.

_Little one!_

He crashed to the ground, thrashing uncontrollably. He saw Murtagh's sword fall to the earth with a glinting flash like a bolt of lightning, felt hands on his shoulders rolling him over. Murtagh was yelling something, eyes wide and wild, but Eragon couldn't understand- he felt Saphira's blazing concern, felt her flying to him with all her might, but then pain consumed all his senses, and he was blind and deaf to the world as he rode out the tide on rolling, crimson waves of agony.

* * *

><p>"Eragon!"<p>

The boy was thrashing with painful spasms in the dirt, his face a tortured mask of pain unlike any Murtagh had ever seen him bear. His hands scrabbled frantically at his back, and his spine arced and twisted like a willow sapling in a storm. As Murtagh tried to hold him still, Eragon's tunic caught on his own clawing fingers and stretched taunt, and Murtagh's hand brushed against the top of Eragon's scar near his shoulder for an instant.

The skin was burning hot.

_He's having a seizure_, Murtagh realized. His back- _something_ was wrong with his back! Fear and panic began to fill him, because he was trying to hold Eragon still and he _did not know what to do-_

The men from the other side of the field reached them, their voices loud in his ears.

"One of you, go get Angela!" Murtagh roared. "Or Arya- whoever you can find first!"

One of the men dashed away, tearing out the room as though a hundred wild Kull were behind him.

"What's wrong with him?" demanded Fredrick, bending near Murtagh with wide eyes, nearly whacking Murtagh in the head with the sword handle that protruded over his shoulder from the massive sword strapped to his back. "What happened?"

"Seizure," gritted out Murtagh, struggling to keep Eragon still, to assure him in some way that he's there, that he's going to be alright…

Fredrick suddenly mumbled a curse and stood.

Murtagh looked up.

One of the Twins was striding across the field, purple robes billowing about his hands and feet, eyes fixed on Eragon. His face was strangely blank…too blank.

Something erupted within Murtagh's chest- something that felt like a flare of wariness, defensiveness, and anger all rolled into one. Part of it is instinctual and primal- he's been in this situation with Eragon too many times to count, on the road when everything was- _is_- a threat and was trying to tear them apart, and his friend is down, and his warhorse instincts are kicking in because Eragon is vulnerable and he does not want this man anywhere _near_ him. And the other part of it is very real, very rational fear- because he knows that Eragon has hidden many things from the Twins during their search through his memories at the gate, things the Twins still desperately want if the trial they forced Eragon into was any indication, and Murtagh was suddenly, painfully aware of how vulnerable Eragon's mental state must have been in that moment- helpless to defend himself, should someone choose to penetrate his mind.

"I told you, you're not allowed out here," growled Fredrick.

The Twin stared at him in disdain. "He needs a healer, you fool," he said. "How do you plan to help him- with your massive, clumsy sword?"

Fredrick scowled, but Murtagh wasn't about to give in.

"You're of no use here," Murtagh growled. The Twin actually halted for a second, surprise visible on his face at the venom in Murtagh's voice. "Your skills lie not with healing. Be gone."

Contempt flashed clearly across the magician's face, and he continued towards them. His gaze took in Eragon's agonized, twisted expression. Murtagh's hands tightened on Eragon's arm and shoulder- he wished he could hide him from that dark, prying gaze.

"Think you to know the extent of my powers, _boy_?" spat the Twin, advancing. "He needs-"

"Back off," growled Murtagh in a low voice, staring at the Twin. Eragon, still senseless, rolled to his side, his back to the magician, face contorted in pain.

Another step forward. "I can-"

Murtagh reached for the dagger in his boot, looming over Eragon. "I said _back off!" _he snarled fiercely.

The magician paused in shock, as though startled by Murtagh's fierceness. Then his expression clouded with anger.

"Whoa-" began Fredrick, stepping between them, holding out his hands.

There is a ground-jarring thud, and then a terrible roar. Everyone whirled around as Saphira stormed into the room, crashing across the earth toward Eragon. The Twin turned and fled, fear clear on his face, and Fredrick jumped out of the way. For a brief moment Murtagh feared he would be crushed, but he refused to budge.

_Eragon!_

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN; _Murtagh is used to Saphira by now, and trusts her enough not to get stepped on. Daw 3 Thinking about doing a one-shot with Murtagh and Saphira. I think it shows how close he and Eragon are that Murtagh is so used to Saphira in Eragon when everyone else is terrified of her. Let me know what you think!**


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